by Ann Granger
Making him tea was one thing. Allowing him to sit there and insult me was altogether different and I’d no intention of letting him get away with it.
‘I don’t shoot my mouth off!’ I said coldly. ‘Nor do you have any reason to harass me, which is what I reckon you’re doing. I’m a member of the public and you’re the one with the attitude problem.’ He didn’t like that and I pressed on with, ‘Incidentally, since all this is hypothetical, have you told Albie Smith the same thing? That he isn’t to tell people he saw what he saw?’
He relaxed. ‘Alkie Albie Smith is an old soak who spends most of his time paralytic and the rest of it hallucinating.’ Parry’s mouth twisted in the rictus that is what passes for a smile with him. ‘No one’s going to listen to anything he’s got to say.’
‘But they might listen to me?’ I sighed elaborately. ‘Oh, come on, sergeant. Who’m I going to tell? And who’d listen?’
‘How do I know?’ he retorted sourly. ‘You’ve got a funny way of getting yourself into places where you’ve no business to be. You get people to listen to you who should know better. Keep out from under our feet, Fran. This is police business and if you go interfering, it could spell disaster. I mean that. A life could be at risk. Leave it alone, right? If you don’t, you’ll be in trouble.’
Being in trouble was as permanent a state with me as being drunk was with Albie. Parry’s threats didn’t worry me. But his dismissal of Albie did.
‘Albie’s your witness,’ I said. ‘Have you spoken to him? You ought to, urgently.’
Parry hesitated. ‘We’re looking for him. He’s lying low, probably sleeping it off. But we’ll find him and find out if he really did see something suspicious – though if you ask me, he dreamed it all up while under the influence.’
‘Not everyone might think so!’ I snapped. ‘Someone might want to make sure, just in case. Someone might want to shut him up.’
‘Leave it. No one’s going to worry about an old soak.’ Parry drained his mug and got up. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Fran. Better than the dump you were living in last time we met. Fallen on your feet, haven’t you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘A friend helped me out.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he sneered. ‘Alastair Monkton. That’s what I mean with you, see? You sweet-talk people who normally wouldn’t dream of mixing with lowlife like you and your mates. You get ’em eating out of your hand and blowed if I can see how or why. Respectable lady like the one who owns this house and lives up there . . .’ He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Oh yes, I’ve had a word with her. She thinks you’re a nice girl. “Resourceful” was the word she used. I’ve a better word for it but I didn’t like to disillusion her. Even a nice old bloke like Monkton . . . Tsk, tsk!’ He shook his head.
I pointed to the door. ‘Out!’ I said crisply.
‘Keep your hair on, Fran. Just remember, I don’t want to have to come and see you again about this, right?’
‘Next time you come, bring a warrant,’ I said. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you, right?’
‘I might just do that, bring a warrant. Just remember, Fran, meddle in this and I’ll charge you with obstructing police enquiries.’
He hadn’t changed since we last met. He was still a graceless thug. But he wasn’t stupid. It was just my luck to have him hovering in the background on this.
I was late setting out for Jimmie’s café, thanks to my visitor. I hurried there feeling hot and bothered; angry with Parry for upsetting me right at the beginning of my day, and with myself for letting him do it.
There were few people about today, just some women with grizzling toddlers in tow and the usual drifters. I passed Hari’s shop and paused to peer inside to see if I could spot Ganesh. He wasn’t there but Hari was and saw me, so I had to go inside and ask him how he was and listen to his latest troubles.
‘Ganesh has gone to the wholesaler’s,‘ he said. ’I suspect they are cheating me.’ His face, small-featured and lined, crumpled up with distress.
I assured him this was highly unlikely, even though I had no way of knowing. But even if they were, Ganesh would deal with it, I added.
‘Ganesh,’ I said with perfect honesty, ‘is very hard to fool.’
It was what Hari wanted to hear and cheered him up. He nodded furiously and said, ‘Yes, yes, my dear, you are perfectly right!’ and offered me a cup of tea.
‘Sorry, I’ve got a meeting,’ I told him, and hurried out.
When I got to Jimmie’s it was well after ten and they were open for business. A few people sat around drinking coffee. Generally speaking, it didn’t get busy till around lunch-time. Jimmie was leaning on the counter and talking about football with a short, thickset, freckled young man with red hair to vie with Parry’s. By his feet rested a large cardboard folder tied with ribbon. This had to be Angus.
Jimmie had spotted me. ‘Here she is,’ he told his companion. Then he called out to me, ‘Go and sit yourself down, hen. I’ll bring you and Michelangelo here a couple of coffees!’
Angus came towards me, holding out his hand. He wore ancient jeans and a dark blue Scottish national football squad shirt.
‘Hullo.’ He appraised me through narrowed eyes, as if literally measuring me up, which was a tad disconcerting. I hoped none of his part-time jobs had been in an undertaker’s. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said.
His accent was milder than Jimmie’s. I guessed that, young though he was, he’d left Scotland some years ago. I shook his hand and apologised for being late. I also noted that he was in exceptionally good physical condition. Perhaps he spent time in the gym or perhaps his line of creative work involved hauling chunks of stone around.
Whereas Parry’s red hair and sharp features made him look like a predatory fox, Angus was a friendly lion with round face, blunt features and a mop of copper curls. His eyes were bright blue and, now he’d sized me up, had reverted to a slightly preoccupied expression which I guessed was normal. I’d lived in a creative artists’ commune, over at Jubilee Street, before the council razed it all to the ground. I knew that look in the eyes. It meant a mind on higher things, and went with unrecognised talent and, usually, no money. Angus, however, had plans regarding the recognition aspect of his talents, and I was part of them. He didn’t waste time getting down to business.
‘No sweat,’ he said, dismissing my apology. ‘Jimmie’s explained it all to you, has he?’
Jimmie arrived with the coffees at that point, and answered for himself.
‘Only in a general way. I thought you do the explaining better yourself.’
He padded off and disappeared through the door behind the counter into the corridor that was his refuge. Within seconds, a curl of blue cigarette smoke coiled through the crack.
‘Right,’ said Angus, pushing his coffee cup to one side with a careless gesture, which caused the contents to slop into the saucer. ‘It’s to do with the Save Our World Resources Arts Festival at the Community Hall on Saturday next.’
I was obliged to admit I hadn’t paid much attention to this forthcoming event, although I recalled seeing a few flyposters around.
‘That’s the one!’ he said impatiently. ‘Local artists were asked to contribute one work apiece. The theme’s the world’s vanishing resources, Well, first of all I was going to create a tower of significant objects representing the natural world under threat. Then I thought, no one’s going to take any notice of that! It’s boring. I want at least to get a picture of my work in the Camden Journal.’
He paused to look wistful and I sipped my coffee. ‘It’d be nice,’ he said, ‘if the national press would take an interest but I don’t suppose they will. Or local TV . . .’ He shook his mop of red curls and sighed. ‘But it’s not likely. Anyhow, I thought, it’s got to be eye-catching. Then I thought, natural world means life, right? So what I’d create would be a living sculpture. It’ll just last the one day, and symbolise the ephemeral nature of the world’s resources which we’re destroying and wasting at a d
evastating rate. So you see, apart from the chance to get my work on public view, it’s all in a good cause, too.’
He stopped on this confident note and looked at me expectantly. Well, I hadn’t thought it’d be for the Tate. I realised I was supposed to comment. I assured him I liked the idea. But, I added hesitantly, although living sculptures had worked very well elsewhere, say, the Hayward Gallery, I wasn’t sure about trying the same thing in our local Community Hall.
‘You’re likely to get a load of kids and weirdos in there,’ I said, ‘making the model’s life a misery. I’m not on for that.’
Since I was clearly intended to be the basis of the living sculpture I was going to insist on such practical details being hammered out first. It’s not the sort of thing an artist, with his mind on saving the world and creating a masterpiece that would gain him media recognition, would think about. But I had no intention of standing there to be pelted with wads of wet paper propelled by an elastic band. Much less being propositioned with offers that had no place in the natural world at all.
‘You’ll be absolutely safe!’ he promised. ‘The organisers have got a couple of doormen lined up to watch out for troublemakers and I’ll be there to protect you. After all, you’ll be my contribution to the show. I won’t want it – I mean, you – damaged.’
It was an unflattering but valid point. Angus himself, moreover, from the look of him, ought to be a competent minder. He saw me weaken.
‘Let me show you!’ he urged. ‘This’ll blow your mind!’
He hoisted the cardboard folder and undid the ribbon. Opening it out, he turned it towards me. ‘There!’ he said proudly, but just a touch anxiously. ‘I decided to concentrate on the vanishing rain forests.’ His eyes searched my face, waiting for my response.
If I’d have told him the plain truth, I’d have said it looked like nothing so much as an overladen Christmas tree. The human body around which it was built had virtually disappeared beneath festoons of greenery, trailing lianas, and birdlife, which, I trusted, would be made of fabric. I really didn’t fancy being turned into a full-length version of an Edwardian lady’s Sunday hat. But he was the design expert and I was just the model. I concentrated, instead, on the practical problems.
‘How’s it all fixed to me?’ I’d had a vision of something painful involving pins or, even worse, instant glue.
‘You wear a body stocking, dark green. It’s very strong and absolutely decent. I sew the other materials to the body suit.’
Sew? A handy chap to have around.
‘How do I hold the pose? I mean, I can hold it for so long, but there’s a limit before I get cramp.’
‘No problem. I’ve made this.’
He whipped away the picture of the tree and displayed a sketch of what looked remarkably like a medieval torture instrument. It was a big steel coil, rather like a basketball hoop without the net, fixed upright with an opening on one side.
‘You stand inside it,’ Angus explained. ‘On this platform. The ring supports you at waist level, against the small of your back, and you rest your right arm along it. Basically it takes your weight. Once I’ve arranged all the materials, foliage and so forth, the viewer won’t be able to see it – well, hardly.’
So far, so good. One important question remained. ‘I’m not a camel.’
‘You’ll get comfort breaks,’ he promised earnestly.
‘I see, and do I get to practise beforehand? To get used to the feel and weight of the body suit?’
He folded up the cardboard case and looked a little embarrassed. ‘Unfortunately, we can’t do that. I’ve run into one or two hiccups getting hold of all the materials and some of them have to be fresh on the day or they’ll wilt. But it’ll be all right by Saturday. You turn up early at the hall, put on the leotard and get into the frame. Then I attach all the other bits and pieces to you – I mean, to the body suit.’
He leaned across the table and entreated. ‘Please say you’ll do it. The girl who was lined up has her leg pinned together and had to cry off. I know it’ll work perfectly.’
Of course I’d do it. I was a would-be actress being offered a role, albeit static, before a live audience. If we struck really lucky, the local press would print a pic, which meant I’d get my face – and my name – in the paper along with Angus.
‘All right,’ I said.
Relief glowed in his blue eyes. ‘Thirty quid, OK? It’s all I can afford and it’s a fair rate.’
A paid live performance. ‘It’s a deal,’ I told him.
‘Fine, then. See you Saturday at the hall, eight thirty, right? Gives us time to get everything fixed up before the public’s let in at ten thirty. Exhibition closes four thirty.’
Six hours’ legitimate work. It couldn’t be bad. At the same time, I privately resolved not to tell Ganesh anything more about it, not unless he actually asked outright. He’d be much happier not knowing.
My mind straying from art, I hoped Ganesh wouldn’t drop out of our planned expedition that evening in further search of Albie.
‘You look a bit worried,’ said Angus solicitously. ‘It will be all right.’
That’s what they always say.
Chapter Five
I walked over to the shop that evening to meet Ganesh, as agreed, outside at eight thirty. A light rain spotted my face and I hoped it stayed at that and we weren’t in for a downpour. I’d pulled on my black leather jacket as a precaution.
The shop was closed and in darkness. I pressed my nose to the glass all the same, because sometimes someone’s in there stacking shelves or doing odd jobs, but it was empty. I moved to the street door alongside, which gives independent access to the upstairs flat and was about to press the bell when without any warning it was jerked open from inside. Ganesh appeared, bolted out, yelling a farewell up the staircase, and slammed the door shut behind him.
I was relieved to see him. After my brief conversation with Hari earlier, I’d more than half expected the problem with the wholesaler to have led to lengthy arguments after work and midnight studying of the accounts. It had happened before that Hari had found some last-minute problem to delay Ganesh and I’d been left hanging about out here in the street, exchanging banter with passing local sex maniacs.
I opened my mouth to ask him how the visit to the wholesaler had gone, but a glance at his expression told me this wouldn’t be a good idea. So I just said. ‘Hi. All ready to go?’
‘Where first?’ he asked, zipping up his jacket to the chin and glancing nervously up at the first-floor bay window in case it was flung open and Hari put his head out to call him back. ‘Let’s go,’ he added before I could answer.
I was happy to move off. A stiff breeze now gusted unimpeded down the street, bowling rubbish and increasingly heavy rain squalls ahead of it and moving had to be better than standing around. It wasn’t so late in the year, only September, and it really oughtn’t to have turned so cold yet. Another thing affecting our expedition was the shortening of the daylight hours. It was already beginning to get dark. Gan thrust his hands into the pouch pockets of his blouson and we set off in the general direction of The Rose.
‘Just to check it out,’ I said. ‘See if Merv’s there. If he is involved then I’d like to know where he is.’
‘He’s going to get suspicious if we start hanging around, Fran,’ Ganesh mumbled, chin down inside his upturned jacket collar.
‘It’s a pub! People hang round pubs. Anyhow, I don’t think he’s that observant. He wouldn’t remember me. I’m just some woman he shoved back against the bar.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone in there,’ Gan picked up the vengeful note in my voice. ‘What did you expect? By the way, did you go round to – ’
He was going to ask about Jimmie’s artist friend and I didn’t want to explain all that, not just now.
I broke in with, ‘By the way, I’ve had a visit from the Monster from the Black Lagoon. Sergeant Parry dropped round to see me.’
Ganesh stopped and
turned to me, incredulous. ‘What did he want?’
I told him about Parry’s visit. Ganesh thought about it, lips pressed tightly together. ‘Well, you could be right. Something brought him running over to your place to warn you off.’ He paused. ‘It would be him, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It would.’
We went on our way in a thoughtful silence. I reflected that Parry had, in a way, done me a good turn because Ganesh had temporarily forgotten my modelling job. Only temporarily. He’d remember.
Despite it being a fairly early hour, the homeless had already staked out their pitches if they were begging, or bedded themselves down for the night beneath whatever sleeping equipment they possessed. We stopped and made brief enquiries of anyone we came across on our way to The Rose. We were greeted either with colourful abuse or the request ‘Got any change?’ Asked about Albie, they replied, ‘Who’s he?’ or ‘Never heard of ’im.’ It wasn’t a good start.